


And he fell apart, with his broken heart

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruises, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lost and Found AU, Mentions of Character Death, Sleep Deprivation, musician au, that's right they're in a band, that's the shittiest netflix show i ever watched but here i am, yeah this is angsty as fuck but what's new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac has known him since they were toddlers, has held Enjolras’s shaking hands after late nights at the hospital and had pieced him back together after the funeral. </p>
<p>He's always been there, and that's not changing anytime soon. </p>
<p>(The Lost and Found AU literally no one else wants)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And he fell apart, with his broken heart

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras isn't really in a great headspace in this, and if there's a lot of parental conflict in this, so if that's upsetting please don't read it. Other than that I'm sorry I haven't been active--I have a lot of unfinished things (including a follow-up to that e/r breakup au), but I'm graduating high school within the month and things have been hectic.

“Good, but I could use more of the secondary guitar line in that last bridge,” Mr. V says from over the intercom. “Let’s run it once more and then talk.”

“You got it, man,” Courfeyrac replies. Already, he’s back right up the microphone, ready to go again, even though they’ve been doing this for _hours_. He spares a small smile at Enjolras; this is the moment they’ve worked for. From learning guitar and piano and banjo and music theory from when they were kids to getting into Lost and Found to finally forming the band. Even though Courfeyrac’s the lead singer, Enjolras is the song writer… or he at least is the lead writer on the stuff they’ve put on his demo. The stuff he writes alone is calmer, leaning more towards folk than the folk rock genre they’ve decided on. Completing the band, Combeferre keeps them steady on the bass and Feuilly gives the beat.

“Bring out the lower notes to match the higher ones when you’re picking,” Enjolras advises, absentmindedly playing some new groove.

“Ah, that’s going to do it.” With that, Courfeyrac counts them all off and, finally, they nail it. It’s the last song they’re recording for the demo, and Courfeyrac’s voice is strong and clear amidst the complicated beats and the softer harmonies Enjolras provides. When they finally hit the last note, simply letting it ring, they’re all relaxed, but waiting for Mr. V’s stamp of approval.

“Excellent. Let’s talk in the green room.” That’s all the warning they get before they quickly pack up their things and head to meet their instructor.

“What’s the verdict?” Combeferre asks bluntly, meticulously unrolling and re-buttoning the wrists on his crisp, blue button-down. Similarly, Feuilly is running a hand through his hair, catching on the elastic holding the dreadlocks in place, and Enjolras is fiddling with his fingers. Courfeyrac, for his part, places a calming hand over Enjolras’s own.

“It’s good. _Really good_. But I want to add two more songs. Softer ones, ones that show the band’s versatility,” he explains. “I still want to send it off in two weeks, so I’m going to work on the sound editing and splicing while you guys write it over the weekend and prepare to record.”

“I think Enjolras should sing lead on these.” Courfeyrac’s voice is calm, composed, but strong. His dark eyes twinkle. “From what I understand, the style and songs you want are Enjolras songs. And his voice is perfect to sing them.”

“Sure. But I want something new, okay?” Mr. V says, and Enjolras’s heart sinks. It’s not a good week and now he has to write two new songs? And sing them?

“Courf, you shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know if I can write two new songs this weekend,” he says, his voice quiet.

“Why not? You write stuff all the time,” Courfeyrac says, giving Enjolras a confused look. “Is he still—“

“Yeah.” Enjolras’s voice is empty. It isn’t common knowledge that Enjolras and his father haven’t gotten along since his mother got sick, but Courfeyrac has known him since they were toddlers, has held Enjolras’s shaking hands after late nights at the hospital and had pieced him back together after the funeral. “It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday.”

“Fuck. It’s the first one since she died.” Courfeyrac’s laughter lines turn into worry lines in an instant. “How bad has it been?”

“It’s worse. Like it’s not just that we’re fighting constantly, but he’s really screaming and throwing things and I don’t know… it’s just a lot worse than normal,” Enjolras says honestly. It’s almost time for them to catch a bus home for the night, for the weekend, and Enjolras can only think not that he just doesn’t want to go home, like normal, but that he’s scared to. He’s never felt like that before.

“Look, you know you can always crash at my place. Like whenever. It’s not even a question—my mom and dad don’t know what’s happening, but they can guess.” All Courfeyrac gets in response is a tense smile, so he just wraps his arms around his best friend. All of Enjolras’s muscles are pulled tight, but he rests his chin on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, so it’s enough to stop Courfeyrac from forcing a sleepover on his best friend.

At least it’s only two days.

 

 

:: ::

 

Enjolras doesn’t have a wallet, or a phone. He’s got what was on his back when he was forced out, which was a guitar, a pen, and a notebook. And two already forming bruises.

His dad finally did it. He finally kicked him out.

Where can he go? It’s fucking Mother’s Day weekend, and everyone is with their families. Lost and Found is locked up, and he doesn’t have his ID anymore.

Fuck. He still has to write the songs.

If he busks near that McDonald’s and gas station and shitty strip mall half an hour’s walk from their shitty neighborhood, he can make enough to buy a coffee and avoid park benches at night. He just needs time to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do.

He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do for food, or for the long-run. But he’s not going to think about what just happened, even though it’s pulsing in his brain to the same beat as the bruise that he feels creep into his eye socket and the one on his stomach.

_Write the songs._ That’s the whisper of melody amidst the deafening rhythm.

 

 

:: ::

 

The first day Enjolras doesn’t show up at Lost and Found, Courfeyrac texts him. He fends off worries by simply stating the obvious: it was Mother’s Day, he’s probably just feeling shitty, he’ll be back the next day.

Enjolras doesn’t respond. And he doesn’t show up the next day. This hasn’t happened before. Enjolras is always _there_ ; he’s the quiet voice that calmed Courfeyrac when he scraped his knees playing in the street at age three, he’s the comforting grip when Courfeyrac’s hands shake because yeah, he’s got two wonderful parents, but his older sister is fighting in a war to pay for college and he’s always so worried about her. He’s the quiet harmony, constant and consistent, in their band, and when they were little and it was just Courfeyrac and him and their guitars.

“He’ll be here tomorrow,” he assures Mr. V when he gets cranky about it, swallowing his worry whole. If he’s not, Courfeyrac is going to find him. Combeferre gives him a meaningful look over their math problem set, but he just looks down. Something is going on.

That night, Courfeyrac sits down with his parents, trying not feel guilty about the worry in their faces.

“Enjolras hasn’t been at Lost and Found since the weekend. I don’t know where he is, and he isn’t even looking at calls or texts,” he explains, feeling a tear leak out of his eye. His chest is heavy with worry and he doesn’t know what to do. “And he’s been… he’s been fighting with his dad a lot.”

“You haven’t heard from him in four days?” his mother asks.

“No. I don’t know if I’m just being stupid, because it was Mother’s Day and we need two new songs for our demo or… or something else,” Courfeyrac explains, twisting and fiddling with his fingers.

“Have you been over by the house?” his father asks, his voice deliberately gentle. It’s common knowledge that he really doesn’t like Enjolras’s family; well, his father specifically. He doesn’t like the tough edge to him, or the smell of stale beer that permeates the house, or the cold harshness he’s regarded Enjolras with since his mom got sick.

“Yeah. I walked by it on my way home. His dad’s car was there, but all of the lights were off. There’s a lot of stuff out by the trash,” Courfeyrac comments. “What should I do?”

“It’s late right now. We’ll call the house and talk to whoever answers, and we’ll go from there.” That’s all his father says, before he walks out of the room to make the call.

“If he’s there tomorrow, can he stay here?” Courfeyrac asks. “If it’s something bad or if he doesn’t need to deal with his—“

“Of course. Tell us the minute he shows up, too,” his mother says. Unfortunately, it’s then that his father reenters the small kitchen.

“His dad answered, but as soon as he heard it was me he hung up,” is all the detail he gives.

“What if he ran away?” his mother asks, her face paling instantly.

“He said that he didn’t want to go home, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t because of the demo and the songs and—“ Courfeyrac tries to defend Enjolras, because he refuses to believe he’d run away without saying goodbye to him.

He better goddamn show up tomorrow.

 

 

:: ::

 

Enjolras is tired, and his vision is suspiciously blurry. He needs to sleep. His body is rapidly going limp, but he somehow manages the long walk to Lost and Found.

The front desk recognizes him, so they don’t make him show his ID, and he gives them a small smile before slowly, carefully trudging up the stairs. He doesn’t make it two steps into the studio before Courfeyrac’s hands are on his shoulders.

“Enjolras?” he asks, his voice shaking, before he simply opts to wrap his arms as tightly as he can around his friend. Unable to do much else, Enjolras melts into the embrace, burying his face into his best friend’s shoulder, smelling the familiar shampoo and soap and hair gel. It’s like Courfeyrac’s arms are the only things keeping Enjolras’s bones from collapsing back into a pile, into dust.

“I’ve got the songs,” he murmurs. That’s when Courfeyrac lets go, his hands going back to Enjolras’s shoulders. His dark brown eyes are looking forcefully into Enjolras’s. He can see the ink smudged underneath Enjolras’s eyes, the bruise that blends in with the circle underneath his right eye that’s steadily greening at the edges, the greasiness of his hair that the knit hat is trying so hard to cover, the way his entire body looks limp.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” he asks.

“I don’t have it. This is all I have.” Enjolras’s voice quavers.

“He kicked you out?” It’s barely whispered. If Enjolras looked over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, he’d see everyone their age blatantly _not_ doing their math work at various tables, watching the interaction. But it’s like Courfeyrac is the only thing in focus in a blurry picture to Enjolras.

“Friday night. Please, can I crash at your place? It’s just for the night… I need to sleep and then I’ll figure this out,” Enjolras begs.

“Where have you been?” Courfeyrac steps back to run a hand through his hair. “That’s almost five days.”

“Hopping between gas stations and like McDonalds at night, in parks and shit during the day. Look, I’m not asking you to take me in or whatever, I just need to sleep. Just for tonight,” Enjolras’s voice shakes and quakes.

“Dude it’s not even a question. You’re staying with me… I don’t care if it’s for the next two years,” he says. “Come on, you can nap in the green room.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.” Enjolras’s voice is rough and stubborn. “And I have the songs. Only one of them is fleshed out for the whole band right now, but we’ve gotta show Mr. V if we want this demo to be done on time.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Surprisingly, it’s not Courfeyrac’s voice, but Combeferre’s. “You look like shit.”

“Have you been eating?” Courfeyrac suddenly asks, sighing deeply when Enjolras just looks down. “When’s the last time you ate? Or drank?”

“A few days ago and this morning,” Enjolras lies, but he looks at his best friend’s face and knows that Courfeyrac knows that he’s lying. “I have the parts for the second song. If we show Mr. V and he likes them we can start fleshing out the first one and laying down the bass line for the other one.”

“It’s only like ten. We’ve got two hours more of normal school before we can work on this,” Courfeyrac reminds him, but it’s like the world is screaming ‘fuck you’ at him because Mr. V appears right then and there.

“I’ll let it slide. Come on, let’s go in the Rose Room.” His voice is calm, but it’s obvious that he wants to talk to Courfeyrac by the look on his face. So, Combeferre and Feuilly lead Enjolras into the room while he pulls out the scrawled sheet music and explains how he has each section written but he’ll cue them. He wants Courfeyrac on piano for it, too.

“What’s going on with him?” Mr. V asks in a low voice just outside of the room.

“I don’t know everything, but his dad just kicked him out. He’s coming home with me tonight,” is all the explanation Courfeyrac gives before going to join the band.

“He doesn’t look good. Have your mom check him for dehydration,” Mr. V says. “Let’s go see what he’s got, and then me, you and the others are going to talk about what’s going to happen.”

“Okay, so the first one is the one that I don’t have all of the parts for yet. I know the guitar one, though, so I’ll just go for it.” In an instant, there’s an ounce of strength in his shoulders as he strums a simple pattern. As soon as his mouth breaths the first line of lyrics, his voice rough yet soft, Courfeyrac knows what this song is about; his mother, and how his father, and him, had to watch her die.

“ _Held onto hope, like a noose, like a rope…_ ” Enjolras’s voice is calm as keeps singing about God’s lack of mercy and how she’s a long way from home. Courfeyrac just watches, and listens, and he can see Enjolras’s insides tearing themselves apart just by looking at his eyes. His hand is strong while he’s strumming, but it looks like his knees are going to give out any minute.

“ _Laid up in bed, you were laid up in bed_  
 _Holding the pain like you're holding your breath_  
 _I prayed you could sleep, sleep like a stone_  
 _You're right next to me_  
 _But you're a long way from home…_ ”

Shit. Courfeyrac doesn’t know where this is going, but he can hear the pain in his friend’s voice. For his part, Mr. V is just listening with his eyes closed, a small crease on his forehead but a smile at the gentle melody that sometimes builds and breaks. Enjolras refuses to look at Courfeyrac, but Combeferre is giving him the “we’re going to fucking deal with this right now” eyebrow arch.

“More morphine, the last words you moaned…” Enjolras voice cracks and breaks, and Courfeyrac feels his stomach drop into his intestines. It’s true; he knows that this is true because he remembers Enjolras sobbing about it in the darkness of his bedroom the afternoon she died.

“At last I was sure that you weren’t far away from home.” That clever turn of phrase, so similar yet so different to the rest of the song, causes the air to leave Courfeyrac’s chest like he’s been punched, and he hears the same exhale from Mr. V. “Yeah,” he croaks, rubbing the hat on his head a little. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he takes a shaky breath.

“Okay. So I’ll give you a nod for each part on this one. It starts just guitar and vocal, though. Honestly Courfeyrac should probably sing it, but I don’t have the lyrics written out, so I’ll do it for now,” he explains as the band gets ready. “You’re good to play piano now, right?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Courfeyrac needs to get a grip, but he feels his chin shaking like he’s going to cry. He’s looked at the drum part, and he knows this is the going to be the song that just builds and builds until you feel it in your heart, in your bones, in the intangible parts hidden between the organs and muscles and tendons.

Enjolras takes a steadying breath, before he shoves his guitar pic in his pocket and starts doing a finger rhythm. “It’s a lonely road…” he starts, but after the first verse, when he (and Combeferre on bass) add to the song with chords at the start of bars, he can’t really listen to the lyrics. Given how Enjolras nods in Feuilly on the next part, first simple and then loud and crashing as Enjolras sings about how he stood in line for love but he’s letting go in a pained voice, Courfeyrac knows this is about his dad. He can feel it in how the song slams into his heart, with the drums and vocals and everything.

“And he fell apart with his broken heart and this blood, this blood, this blood, oh it drains from my skin it does,” he gets out before nodding the rest of them out. It ends the same way it starts, with those simple chords broken down into arpeggios.

“Give me and the band a chance to digest and think about it,” Mr. V says, as he watches the strength leak from Enjolras. He simply puts his guitar back in the case before slowly hobbling his way out of the room.

“I know what I think. I’ll go with him,” Combeferre decides, needing to keep an eye on his friend and bandmate. He stays a few steps behind Enjolras, but the smaller boy makes it to the couch before his knees buckle.

“They’re good. Really good,” is all Combeferre says, taking a seat on the coach opposite Enjolras’s. “But you look wrecked. You should take a nap.”

“Yeah. I’m just… nervous,” he admits, twisting his hands together. “But everything’s spinning, so it might be a good idea.” Combeferre knows that Enjolras is out of it, too out of it to fight him, so he just gently guides Enjolras so that he’s lying down and, sure enough, in a matter of seconds his breathing has evened out, even though his hands wrap protectively around his stomach. Confident after a few minutes that he’s truly asleep, Combeferre pinches the back of Enjolras’s hand, watching as it slowly sinks back to where it’s supposed to be. Yeah, he’s definitely dehydrated. Sighing, Combeferre runs a hand through his previously perfectly styled hair and returns to the rest of them.

“Well, they’re brilliant,” Mr. V says. “It’s not going to be hard to add instrumentation to the first one. They just need titles.”

“The first one is Long Way from Home,” Feuilly says. “It names itself, really.”

“What about the other one?” Combeferre asks. “That one’s harder.”

“Ask him, but do it later. He’s asleep, right?” Courfeyrac directs this straight at his other best friend. He’s already texted his mother, and she’s picking them up from the studio as soon as her friend can come in and cover her shift, which will be in like an hour.

“Yeah. That’s the other thing,” Mr. V starts, “we need to talk about what’s going on with him.”

“He’s really tired. And dehydrated… I did the skin test,” Combeferre fills in. “When is your mom coming?”

“In like an hour. Are you sure it’s okay if we’re cutting out early?” Courfeyrac needs to make sure, because if there’s one thing he doesn’t need it’s an anxious Enjolras.

“It’s not even a question. Just text me if you’re not coming in tomorrow, either. We’ll take care of arranging Long Way from Home and laying down the bass tracks for the other one,” Mr. V says. “Is he going to… is he going to need a place to stay after tonight?”

“No. My mom’s already taking care of it. My dad’s grabbing what stuff he can while Enjolras’s dad is at work. Trust me, we’re not leaving him alone in this,” Courfeyrac reassures him.

“Okay. Good. He’s a good kid. He’s lucky to have you.” That as close to comfort as they’re going to get from Mr. V, so he just leaves the room.

“Can I come over tonight?” Combeferre asks. “I’ll give you a few hours to get things taken care of, but—“

“Yeah, man. He’ll need both of us. It’s going to be… it’s going to be rough.” That’s all Courfeyrac says before a buzz in his pocket occupies his thoughts.

“Mom’s on her way. I’m going to go sit with him, okay? I’ll text you when we know more of what’s happened.” With that, Courfeyrac hides his shaking hands in his pockets and goes back to the green room. Luckily, Enjolras is still fast asleep, but his breathing is short, and his hands are wrapped tightly around his stomach.

Gently, carefully, Courfeyrac approaches his friend.

He makes sure his touch is light as he pries Enjolras’s hands away, and it takes all of his self-control not to let out any noise when he shifts Enjolras’s shirt up and sees the grotesque, large bruise on his best friend’s stomach.

__“Fuck.”_ _

__

 

 

 

:: ::

 

“Hey, E.” Gently, Courfeyrac starts brushing curls away from Enjolras’s face. He barely woke up to get to the car before immediately falling back asleep, but now that they’re home his mom is going to want to check out that bruise on his stomach.

“Courf?” Enjolras’s voice is scratchy and slow.

“Yeah, dude. Come on, let’s get you inside,” he says, helping his friend out of the car. Enjolras’s eyes are half-lidded at best, and he doesn’t even fight Courfeyrac slinging Enjolras’s arm over his shoulder and taking most of his weight.

Eventually, Courfeyrac deposits Enjolras on the couch, and his mother appears, crouching in front of Enjolras with her first aid kit. With slow movements, she grabs Enjolras’s wrist and does the same test Combeferre had done at the studio; the pinched skin takes far too long to return to its original position.

“Okay. Hey, can you go grab a Gatorade from the fridge?” That’s directed at her son, who immediately does as he’s asked. “You’re really dehydrated. You probably need an IV…”

“No. No hospital,” Enjolras says immediately. “I’ll drink and eat whatever you want me to, but not that.”

“Okay, okay,” she says gently, her hands now going to examine the bruises on Enjolras’s face. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a concussion, but she wants to know how his eyes are tracking, so she makes his eyes follow a flashlight anyways. As she suspected, his movements are slow and it looks like they’re extremely labored.

“Can you lie down for me?” It’s then that Courfeyrac returns with the red, not blue Gatorade. His mother just sets it on the small coffee table and carefully lifts the bottom of Enjolras’s shirt to see the bruise, before pressing down on it.

“Shit!” Enjolras gasps out, before looking apologetically at Courfeyrac’s mom. For his part, Courfeyrac’s lips twitch up in a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine. Okay, so I’m just going to apply antiseptic to the bruises and get you an ice pack for your stomach, because that bruising is severe. But what worries me is the fact that you’re severely dehydrated, and I’m guessing you haven’t been eating, either.” Her voice is low and soft, but it carries that hint of steel that lets Courfeyrac know he’s going to have Gatorades and water bottles shoved at him all night.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” Enjolras tries to reassure her. “Thanks for letting me stay here tonight. I...” Enjolras can’t finish the sentence, his voice catching in his throat.

“You think she’s letting you leave?” Courfeyrac says with a snort, hauling his friend up and thrusting the Gatorade bottle into his hand. “Let’s go up to my room—I think ABC Family is playing Harry Potter for like the next four days on repeat.”

“It’s not called that anymore. It’s called Freeform or some shit,” Enjolras mumbles, but he follows Courfeyrac anyway.

 

 

:: ::

When Combeferre gets there an hour later, there are four empty Gatorade bottles on the floor of Courfeyrac’s room and Enjolras is in a fresh set of his new clothes, hair still dripping wet from the shower. Even though most of Enjolras’s belongings are already at the dump, some of his clothing and a few books were out there for Courfeyrac’s dad to pick up. So, Enjolras is in a pair of boxer shorts and an old Lost and Found sweatshirt.

“My mom says that she’s willing to order pizza if you promise to eat it,” Courfeyrac says, pulling Enjolras into the blanket fort he made in front of the TV in his room. “You too, ‘Ferre.”

“What are we watching?” Combeferre asks, gently pressing a full nalgene into Enjolras’s hand. “You know I’ll always eat pizza.”

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks, and Enjolras just shrugs.

“Yeah, sure,” he complies, his head drooping down. But then he just takes a huge swing from the Nalgene, fighting to stay awake. “There’s a Harry Potter thing on ABC Family.”

“Jesus, E, it’s Freeform. Get it right.” Courfeyrac says, calling out the information to his mother in Spanish quickly. Then, he just wraps an arm around Enjolras and pulls him back into the blankets. Maybe if they can avoid what’s just happened with pizza, Harry Potter, and blanket forts, it won’t be real.

 

 

:: ::

“It’s my fault she died. It’s why he hates me—“

“No, E, it’s not, it’s not—“

“Then why does he hate me?”

 

 

:: ::

“Why are they even playing Harry Potter? It’s not even a weekend,” is all Enjolras mumbles when Courfeyrac yanks the covers away from him.

“Well, it’s sixteen-fucking-hours closer to the weekend. You literally slept through the entire day,” Courfeyrac says, his smile wide at his friend’s disgruntled but much healthier looking face. “But I decided to overlook it and give you your gift anyway. It’s actually a double gift, because I’m that awesome.”

“Courf—“ In an instant, Enjolras sits up, ready to protest.

“Nope. If you’re going to protest this I’m going to go get my mom and we’re having that talk I’m currently saving you from.” Courfeyrac’s eyes twinkle and his mop of hair is even messier than normal. When Enjolras says nothing, simply opting to scrub the sleep from his face. “Awesome. Here it is!”

It’s a freaking teddy bear, clutching a small, wrapped object. Immediately, Enjolras’s heart swells, because he recognizes the well-loved ribbon around its neck. It’s the teddy bear Enjolras gave Courfeyrac for his fifth birthday.

“You’re giving me Snugs?” Enjolras’s voice cracks, and he immediately throws his arms around his friend, who hugs him back just as tightly.

“Open up the actual gift, you sap.” Courfeyrac’s words are mostly lost in the space between Enjolras’s collarbones, but there’s a chuckle they both feel vibrate through them and Enjolras eventually lets go. He carefully unwraps the package. Inside, there’s one thing: a lanyard, with a new Lost and Found ID and an ordinary key.

“It’s a house key.” Courfeyrac’s waiting for Enjolras’s reaction, remembering the sobbed words, the glimpses into Enjolras’s broken life he got that last night. He just wants his friend to be warm and safe, and he knows that he doesn’t have enough money to do it alone. And he shouldn’t have to—he’s barely sixteen. “Don’t say anything. You know my parents wouldn’t offer this if they thought it’d be a burden.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras clutches the bear to his chest, trying to remember how he got to this point, why he deserves a second family that loves him just as much as his did before everything fell to shit.

“Now come on, my mom’s made breakfast.” It almost feels like any other sleepover, just a night spent with his best friend and his family, but there’s the lingering tiredness and Courfeyrac’s mother checks the bruise on his stomach the moment she sees him. It’s hard not to think about how his house is just two blocks down, or what she’s offering to do for him.

Right now, it’s just a plate with scrambled eggs and a few sausage links. After a few seconds of Courfeyrac ruthlessly demolishing his own food, he pauses.

“Mr. V wants a name for the second one you showed us.”

“Father’s Song.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and drop me a review! (Or talk to me at thoseunheard on tumblr.) Also, the two songs that Enjolras "wrote" are Long Way from Home and Gale Song by the Lumineers.


End file.
